


Relaxation

by Moonzari



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Body Worship, Breeding Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Foot Fetish, Gerik!Phantom for reasons, Marking, Neck Kissing, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Behavior, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29804460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonzari/pseuds/Moonzari
Summary: 2004 based. Christine is pregnant and uncomfortable. Erik wants to help her relax.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Relaxation

**Author's Note:**

> This stemmed from a conversation in a Discord server I’m a part of. We were discussing how for a lot of the 2004 movie, Christine is barefoot. Which, of course, stirred the conclusion Gerik has a foot fetish. And I wrote this as a way to cram a bunch of my own kinks in it. Enjoy. ;)

Christine finds these quiet moments in the evening are the ones she cherishes the most. The ones where she and her husband, warm in the company of each other, enjoy the extensive sun of summertime and only light one candle so Erik can write. It’s serene and she could not be more content.

America is different from Paris. Here, in New York, they are nobody. Erik doesn’t have an infamous past looming over him here and Christine’s fame was left burning with the Populaire— but they like it that way. For now. They live in the smallest house on the outskirts of Coney Island, with barely enough room for the two of them. But it’s cozy. They’re happy.

This evening is unseasonably cool for June; the brink of summer. There’s a single window open in the kitchen and there’s enough air circulating for the entirety of their little home. The smell of brine from the nearby sea tinged with fresh-cut grass from a neighboring yard overpowers Christine’s senses. She watches her husband scratch away at a piece of parchment with his quill from the couch, where she lounges silently.

Her abdomen is rounded, six months pregnant with her Angel’s child. She feels no less than beautiful every time Erik looks at her, but tonight she feels… bloated. Uncomfortable. It doesn’t help the baby’s kicking her pretty hard. “Your child is getting a head start on being a dancer,” she sighs, rubbing her belly to try and soothe it.

“Have you already assigned her a role?” Erik’s rich baritone still makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. And _oh_ , her hormones will be the absolute death of her. She feels so unattractive right now but still a warmth pools in-between her thighs when her husband turns to look at her with those intense eyes of his.

“You had no issue picking roles for me, may I remind you,” Christine sighs, arching her back to try and get comfortable. Erik is now full-on staring at her: the way her neck arches as she leans her head back against the pillows; her alabaster legs a stark contrast to the red of the couch. And her feet. Oh gods, her _feet_.

Christine Daaé is a goddess who walks amongst mortals. It has been a while since Erik had taken the time to worship his wife’s body. Grovel and marvel at every inch of her. And he suddenly feels the overwhelming need to. “Darling,” he says, and it comes out of his mouth like liquid velvet. “You look uncomfortable.”

“Mmn, this couch isn’t luxury, Erik,” she sighs, before she sits up, making a motion to stand. “The baby is extremely restless tonight. I think I may take a bath.”

He catches her hand as she walks by him, and she hovers in between his legs. “Let me relax you another way,” he says, one of his large hands running over her swollen abdomen. Christine cannot help but let her lower lip catch in her teeth. She feels the opposite of sexy right now but her husband is already shifting the tides and her _damn_ hormones are making every inch of her body scream for him.

Her petite hands brush over his broad shoulders, appreciating how his muscles react to even the lightest of her touches. “How can I say no?” she says, her fingertips traipsing upward. His neck is a feat of nature. The entirety of him is. It was cruel of genetics to mar his face and give the rest of him the body of a Grecian warrior. A throaty moan rumbles beneath her fingertips now caressing his throat, and she makes the first move.

A kiss is pressed to his skin, a soft sigh as “ _Christine_ …” reverberates in the vocal cords underneath her lips. _Oh_ , the way he speaks her name makes her want to climb in his lap and bypass his plan for relaxation. Let her Maestro just take her here on his piano bench. She’s _so_ ready for him, but Christine can tell Erik has plans. And when his mind is set, her husband sees something through _his_ way.

The soprano relents, steps back, and lets her husband stand. Her hand engulfed by his, she leads him up the wooden stairs that creak under their weight to their bedroom. Their bed, compared to the rest of the house, is extravagant. It takes up the majority of their tiny bedroom and is adorned with satin sheets. “ _Only the best for my songbird’s nest_ ,” Erik had said when Christine had protested rather vehemently.

Still, it’s been a blessing in disguise: now that Christine is at the peak height of her hormones, she drags Erik up here often. Tonight isn’t an exception. His eyes get this dark quality about them when he’s aroused and it drives her wild. Her small fingers move to start unbuttoning the robe she’s wearing before his large hands are on her waist, pressing her against the nearest wall. “I’m supposed to be relaxing you, remember?” he murmurs against her ear, that gruff tone of his voice sending shockwaves of warmth through her being and straight to her core.

Christine leans her head back as Erik’s lips and nose nuzzle against her throat, a soft moan his reward. “Sing, my Angel,” he growls against her skin, in between kisses, and she whimpers. If he wasn’t holding her up she’d be a crumpled heap on the floor right now, she’s sure of it. The soprano lets a few impromptu, yet on-pitch notes leave her throat and Erik feels her vocal cords vibrate under his lips and tongue: the way she sings when he asks, and the way his teeth digging into her pale flesh dissolve the notes into a cry of his name. His tongue and teeth and lips lavish the skin of her throat, the side of her neck, inhaling her scent as he sets about darkening a mark he had left days ago.

“ _My_ Christine…” he grumbles against her skin, against the bruise now flourishing under his lips and she’s shaking.

“I’ve always been yours,” she says without hesitation, and Erik picks her up in his arms to finally take her to the bed.

It no longer shocks Christine what her husband likes; what about her body that he finds the most attractive. She knows it all by now. Despite the fact she’s aching for him, she humors her Erik— lets him kneel in between her legs, taking one of her pale, lithe legs and planting a kiss to the neat knot of bone that juts out and marks the existence of her ankle.

Her Erik’s affinity for her feet and legs has always puzzled her slightly. When they were moving items into their new home, Christine had found a pair of stockings she was _sure_ she had absently misplaced in the whole debacle amongst his things. Upon confronting him with them, Erik had sheepishly confessed to removing them the first night he had spirited her away to his lair. How hadn’t she noticed?

His lips touch the arch of her foot near her heel and she giggles, feeling the slight twinge of stubble from his chin brush against the sole of her foot. Erik places several feather-light kisses up the arch of her foot to the ball, and she gasps when his teeth graze the skin there. “The gods broke the mold creating you, Christine…” his voice sounds through the haze of lust surrounding the two of them. His hands are moving up her calf, cupping the space behind her knee.

“Perfection. My beautiful Aphrodite.” He takes great pains to look her in the eye as he kisses each of her five toes, and she obliges him. She flexes her foot, spreads her toes for him. She keeps her nails painted for him, having learned what color combinations he likes. For now, they are a simple red-and-gold pattern, much like his Red Death costume. Erik takes a moment to admire those as well, gives each toe another kiss of approval. Around her left ankle is a gold anklet with onyx gemstones, one she was given for her eighteenth birthday by her husband. The first one in America.

His tongue traces up the visible vein atop her foot and Christine shivers, his lips coming back into play at her ankle. _You have such nice legs… was a treat to see them in all their elegance while you were in the ballet corp…_ he had murmured one night very early in their relationship when he was between her legs much like he was now. Kissing along her calf and shin, with hot open-mouthed kisses. He’s doing it now and she can barely think straight. “Erik… please…”

Again, he ignores her pleas, taking his time laying down kiss after kiss on her alabaster skin. His fingertips trailing upward to trace patterns on her thighs. Erik kisses the crook of her knee and chuckles to himself when Christine whimpers, her fingers grabbing at the bedsheets. His poor little wife.

He takes his time to kiss and lick upwards, her inner thigh earning another mark from his teeth and lips that she cries out upon receiving. Christine is sensitive here, with faded marks from earlier endeavors like prizes. She loves wearing Erik’s marks, loves looking at herself in the mirror after they make love to take inventory of the new deep, dark marks on her snow-white skin.

Erik grins wolfishly when he finds out she’s bare underneath her robes, easy for him to kiss her nether lips and earn another gasp in return. “So wet for me already…” he teases, his tongue taking one languid swipe up her slit, large hands grasping her hips when she bucks up. “Ah, ah… patience, _ma petit_ …”

“This is the _opposite_ of relaxation,” Christine says in a huff, and Erik chuckles as his thick fingers spreads her open. “You are being very impatient,” he chastises, those intense eyes looking up to meet hers. “I will take care of you. Just as I always have.”

And she knows he will. Christine trusts the man between her legs with all her heart and soul. Despite all they had been through in the past, they had come leaps and bounds in the few years they had been together. Still, she tosses her head to the side. The man is _maddening_ with his teasing and her entire body feels as if she may melt. Erik finally grants her a small mercy and swipes his tongue over her clit— once, twice, three times. There’s a sharp inhale as the crown of her head digs back into the pillows, back arching off the bed.

Erik takes a few moments to savor her taste; take in his fill. A hand trails from her thigh up to her rounded abdomen, caressing ever so lovingly. “You look so beautiful, you know?” he says as he gazes up at her from between her thighs, nose buried in her wet heat. “Seeing you full of my babe… seeing the changes your body’s going through because of me…”

Christine feels like she’s on fire, shivering as she arches her back again to try and press closer to her husband; her lover. She’s _so_ close. “Take me, Erik… _fuck_ I want you inside me…” She’s breathless; worked up to the point that she’s not above begging. Her husband’s body lords over hers, hulking and _hard_ and she’s so ready to feel him. He completes her: like his body was molded for her and her legs widen to welcome his warm, hard cock against her.

There is little issue with him finding her entrance. Christine is soaking wet, and she takes her husband deep into her with one certain thrust of his hips. She gasps, her lips falling apart as she cries out “oh _fuck me,_ Erik-!”

A growl erupts from his throat, his hips taking little care to spare any tact or time. He wants her to come, fucks her like she asks— relentless. Hard, fast. The bed beneath them groans with each thrust but it’s drowned out by his good little soprano singing in pleasure for him.

“Hnnh- oh _right there_ , darling!” Christine wails and Erik slows down a bit, but his thrusts stay true. He lowers himself down so their eyes meet, soul gazing into soul. “Sing for me, _mon ange_. Sing for me and let me claim you as _mine_ as you do…”

The young woman shivers, brown eyes gazing up at her lover, her husband, the father of her child. Her Angel of Music. Her Maestro. “I will sing for you… I am yours, and yours alone… claim me again, Angel…”

And with that, Christine begins to sing one of his arias, hands on either side of his face and their foreheads touching as she does. She keeps an incredible amount of control over her voice for someone who is being fucked into the mattress. She’s been taught well, after all.

It isn’t long after she hits one of the louder high notes astride her own climax that Erik slams into her and shudders. “ _Christine-!”_ he snarls and sobs her name at the same time, feeling himself tense within her pulsing, hot walls.

Christine lets out a elated sort of moan when she feels her husband’s cock swell within her and the pulses of his warm seed fill her abdomen not long after. She loves feeling him claim her in every way possible; loves how he breeds her so efficiently. “Mmn, you’ve made a mess of me…” she murmurs in his ear after their breathing has slowed a bit, kissing up the side of his marred cheek.

Erik’s throaty chuckle is deep and makes Christine quake. “But you are relaxed now, my little Delilah?”

There’s a sparkle in her eye, but before she can do anything their child kicks again and Erik feels it. He pulls back, a heavy hand placed on his wife’s abdomen. The look of awe in his face is one Christine wishes she could capture for all time. “Papa’s little dancer,” she teases, and their lips find each other’s in a slow, deep kiss.

As the kiss continues, Christine rolls Erik over, feeling her husband’s renewed hardness swelling within her. “I think I could _still_ use a little more relaxation,” she purrs, and there isn’t anything he would deny her.


End file.
